


Toyland

by voodoochild



Category: Carnivale
Genre: Backstory, Early Work, F/M, Misogyny, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One not-so-special night in St. Paul, Minnesota, Iris Crowe muses on the balance of power between her and her brother. What she does not know may tip the balance of everything yet to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toyland

**Author's Note:**

> Much, much love to Vorona for the beta and for the continual support.

Everything she'd ever learned as a "good Christian girl" told her that this - whatever it was - was wrong. Not godly. Unclean. Scripture said "Cursed be the man who lies with his sister". Well, what of the woman who lies with her brother?

_Nepravil'no._

It had been going on for so long that she'd never questioned it. Because during those nights, she was Irina and he was Alexei, and that was how it was. Forbidden and terrible and beautiful and sacred all at once. Comfort and joy. Childhood curiosity giving way to adolescent fascination giving way to adult compulsion until she didn't know where she ended and he began.

She could never forget where they'd begun - a tiny house in Mintern, hands and mouths stifling moans and shrieks for fear Norman and Rose would hear. Curled together in Justin's bed, his arm tucked securely around her waist. Half in comfort (for he still awoke in the middle of the night calling for her in the voice of a boy-child) and half in practicality (their twin beds were barely enough to hold Justin's over-six-foot frame, and she didn't want to fall and awaken anyone). He'd clung to her all through the night as they came together again and again - for practice makes perfect and sin gets much easier over time.

And so it did. It became all too easy for them to invent falsehoods for Norman and Rose as to why they couldn't possibly go to the church picnic, or why Justin absolutely needed her assistance to fix the kitchen door. Lies that Norman and Rose should have (and who knows, maybe Rose did) seen through, but that they were convinced they'd gotten away with. It was child's play, in its truest form.

The lies began to snowball, until they'd actually convinced their guardians that they just had to stay behind on Norman's retreat weekend and not accompany them to Salinas. Four blissful days with the house to herself and Justin - a scenario she believed they would echo for even longer in St. Paul, once Justin formally entered seminary.

But not two years later, there came St. Paul, where they came to an end. The prim and proper city of godly living, where they were greeted not with the raised eyebrows and muffled whispers they'd become used to in Mintern, but outright condemnation.

_"Just look at those Crowe siblings. The boy's going to make a fine preacher one day if he would stop questioning everything he learned. Maybe a woman's influence would help, but he's got no mind for marriage to a good Christian woman. And the girl's not much better - she must be at least twenty, and still no husband!"_

Iris had never known Justin to pay any mind to gossip, but three days after they'd moved into the little house on the outskirts of town, he'd put an end to their shared nights. He started sleeping on the pullout couch on the sun porch (for there was only one bedroom, and his anger at the condemnation they'd garnered didn't extend to losing his manners), and locking the door behind him. An end to false innocence, and not one she would have chosen.

Every time he awoke from a nightmare - and she always knew when it was, for there was no mistaking the little-boy-lost automatic shout of "Irina! _Pomosch_!" - instead of climbing into bed behind her and allowing himself to be soothed by her voice, he begun reading his Bible obsessively. Like he could exorcise his nightmares _sola scriptura_ \- by scripture alone.

It broke her heart, little by little, as the nightmares began increasing in frequency and violence. She would force herself not to hear his cries every night, and the only thing stopping her from going to him many times was the sturdy lock on the sun porch. She would now wander downstairs each morning at daybreak to find her brother dozing fitfully at his living-room desk, instead of stretched out comfortably on the pullout. His blonde curls darkened with sweat, his tall frame thinning out, and the bluish-black circles under his eyes screamed out to her that all was not well. But he wouldn't hear of it. Would protest that he was just "up late, studying", and that the Old Testament prophets weren't the easiest writers to understand.

She didn't bother pointing out that the only passages he seemed to have problems with were the Twelve Curses in Deuteronomy and the Messianic prophecies in Isaiah. And that he could (and had) recited Genesis, Joel, and Ezekiel in his sleep. So she held her tongue, and let him spiral downward - for as Rose had pointed out before they left Mintern, Iris could not expect to mother Justin forever. But if he insisted upon continuing his childish behavior, she had reasoned that she may very well need to start again.

~*~*~*~

But every time she brought the subject (any subject, really) up with him, he'd lash out at her over something completely unrelated. The broken shutter on the front of the house. Cleaning the house for Norman and Rose's visit next weekend. The various men she saw socially. Oh, they were his favorite. Never mind that in Justin's paranoia-ridden mind, anyone over the age of 15 was a threat to her. Never mind that she hated most of the boys her age (and yes, they were still boys to her - not grown men with a calling like Justin) and barely gave any the time of day. And never mind that if she had been seriously courting anyone the entire town would know within a few hours.

He'd been so angry over her last date that when the young man had driven her home, he hadn't dared to even walk her to the house because Justin was pacing the front porch. She'd taken pity on the poor soul, and swore she wouldn't take it as an insult if he left. His wheels were spinning gravel not ten seconds after the words left her mouth. She'd taken her irritation out on Justin. Oh, they'd practically shouted the walls down, and she'd slapped him after being called a decidedly crude name in Russian. And that had been nearly a week ago.

Unfortunately, before she could even try to mend the rift between them, she started hearing gossip that upset her.

_"Would you just look at Justin Crowe, spending day after day with that gypsy woman who reads cards down on Walnut Street? What's he getting himself into with that tart?"_

Oh, so he could run around with some card-reader, but heaven forbid she speak to a man! Hypocrisy brought out the worst in Iris Crowe, and Justin was the target. So she begun playing the flirt, attracting all sorts of attention from men that (hopefully) drove Justin crazy. She'd never needed to resort to it in Mintern, but here in St. Paul, it was good to keep the townsfolk buzzing.

She'd go out, Justin would wait up to rant and rail at her, forbidding her to be out after 9 pm, and work himself into a rage when she would walk in the door at 8:59, hair carefully pulled out of place to make it appear he had something to worry about. It was all too easy to play the whore, even though she'd simply gone on a drive around the lake alone every night for the past seven months.

But tonight? She'd come in from a "date" with Patrick Lipton at quarter past ten, and Justin barely paid any attention to her entrance. He'd muttered a proprietary "did you have a good time, dear?", his eyes staring straight ahead and his hands tracing absentminded patterns on the open Bible in front of him. Iris would have been annoyed, but then she began to see something was very wrong with her brother. He wasn't simply lost in thought - for he'd been prone to that since birth, and he usually didn't let it interfere like this - and she noticed the faint tremor in his hands that made his movements waver.

"Justin, are you all right?" she hesitantly asked.

Justin nodded, the childish duck of the head that he'd never grown out of. She perused his oh-so-familiar form, and narrowed her eyes at the tear along the sleeve of his shirt. Justin was never careless with his clothing. He'd taken to folding his own shirts at seven because Rose didn't crease the collar and cuffs to his liking. He would never wear a torn shirt out of the house. That, more than anything, convinced Iris to take a closer look at him. She made her way over to his chair slowly, not wanting to spook him.

He could be skittish as a colt - shying backwards in a mimicry of the animals he'd been fascinated with as a child in Rostov. Papa had kept four horses in their barn, and forbidden Alexei and Irina to enter. She'd been a good girl, minding her Papa, but Alexei was forever getting caught in the hayloft, blue eyes fixed on the stallions he so loved. He'd even dared to ride their father's favorite one day, and hadn't walked straight for a week afterward.

She'd never shared his fascination with horses (because really, metal and steel trucks and cars were much more reliable), but she put everything he'd taught her to use. Don't loom, it makes you seem threatening. Be patient and sincere, or they'll lash out. Don't approach them too directly. Let them come to you.

Iris knelt to the side of Justin's chair, moving her hands slowly up the edge of the upholstery to finally, tentatively, interlace them with his. At her touch, even as deliberate and slow as it was, he still inhaled sharply. A purely selfish feeling of pleasure spread through her - she could still affect him. She, not some card-reader. Iris Crowe. Irina Belyakov. The spinster sister of the seminary's most promising student in years could still make him gasp. Still.

"Alexei, what's wrong? Please tell me."

He finally focused on her, and the pain burning in his eyes made her gasp this time. The face of that frightened six-year-old on the riverbank peered out at her, and she held in check the impulse to wrap him in her arms as she always did when he dreamed of falling through the air and fighting the current for breath. She knew he didn't remember anything after they made their way to the riverbank. Iris wished she could forget.

_Bad man. He was sent to kill them, wasn't he? SHUT UP! Snap crack. Head twisted too far. Dead hands scrabbling at her throat. Alexei screaming wordlessly, not realizing what he'd done. Killed him. No man of God, where was the man of God?_

A sharp pain at her wrists drew Iris back to the darkened living room, her knees aching from the stained-glass pattern of the carpet. Justin had finally moved. And while Iris was remembering a cold night on the river, she knew that memory wasn't what was hurting her brother so much now. He stared at her wild-eyed, fingers wrapped around her wrists, grip so tight her breath sped up. What did she do to cause this?

"No . . . you couldn't have been there . . . couldn't have heard . . . there was no one . . . no one to hear the screams. Lead me not into temptation, but she led me anyway. She lied to me. It was her fault. Herfaultherfaultherfault . . ."

Iris had to strain to hear him, focusing not on his crushing grip on her wrists, but on his harshly whispered words. Like a chant. A prayer. But of denial or absolution, she knew not.

~*~*~*~

She had managed to soothe him, to talk him down off whatever ledge he had been walking. Quietly, she had begun to sing - _Toyland, toyland, magical girl and boy land. Once you dwell within it, you are ever happy there_ \- and eventually his panicked grip on her wrists had eased. His sharp, gasping breaths had smoothed out as she laid her head against his knees (why did it smell of wine and cedar wood?), continuing the song Rose had taught them.

It was their first English lullaby, speaking of the beauty of play rather than the beauty of darkness. Alexei had been amused by it when she'd translated it for him. Liked the image of eternal happiness due to a few toys. But Iris had been chilled by the song, especially when she'd heard a recording of it. When Rose sung it, it seemed a playful homage to childhood, if a little sad at the end. On the recording, it was much harsher - a song of mourning, a lament for lost innocence.

They'd sat there for what seemed like hours (in reality only about half of one), their lives back in harmony once again. She with her legs curled up underneath her, her head resting in the curve of his knee. He finally relaxing against the back of the chair, one hand stroking idly through her hair after removing all the hairpins from it. She never stopped her charmed melody - sometimes singing, sometimes humming. Dozens of songs. Lullabies, church hymns, jazz tunes, Broadway songs, songs of patriotism to both America and Russia, and even an old Ukrainian drinking song she'd overhead as a child while following one of the maids to the market.

Only once had he tensed up again - during an old _cygan_ song. She supposed that the song reminded him of that card-reader of his, and simply begun another song. But that told her everything she needed to know. Something had obviously happened between Justin and that gypsy woman, something that had seriously upset him. But what in God's name could possibly have frightened him so badly?

Iris didn't want to upset him further, so she didn't ask. Just continued her lullaby until Justin placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and told her it was getting late. He had wandered off to the porch, drawing the curtains closed and shutting the door behind him. She noted in the same selfishly pleased vein that she hadn't heard the lock click into place. There was no mistaking the sound of that deadbolt sliding shut.

She was nowhere near tired or ready for sleep, so she busied herself around the house. Even after eight months in the tiny house outside St. Paul, she still got a flutter in her stomach when she remembered that it was theirs. The Mintern house had Rose and Norman etched into every corner - the high-backed couch, the old leather armchair Norman always said he'd leave Justin one day, the flowered wallpaper, the doorway to the kitchen Rose measured their growth on. It would never truly belong to them. But this house was theirs, even though they were technically renting it until Cavalry Methodist got a new priest.

They had made their imprint on each room anyway. Iris had painted honeysuckle and ivy onto the border of the kitchen because she loved the image from legend. Justin and a few of his fellow seminarians had built the walls and put screening around the back porch, insulating it against the elements to turn it into a room for his use. They'd replaced the sofa in the living room, preferring a highback like Rose and Norman had. And they'd bought a few silkscreen pictures like Mama used to collect to remind them of Russia.

Iris found herself thinking of Mama as she made her way out into the backyard, where the washing hung drying in the breeze. Plemina Belyakov was from peasant stock, and had never quite gotten used to the servants doing everything for her. She would join in the washing circle when Lucius was away (which occurred the majority of the time), and had taught Irina to wash and fold her own clothing. It helped, especially in the Balthus household, where everyone must contribute.

She had begun pulling wash off the line, shaking the stiffness out of shirts and dresses, and shivering slightly as the chill air blew her dress around her calves and shot straight through her thin sweater. She worked her way methodically (_"first the sheets and linens, then all clothing except shirts, which must be folded separately, Irina"_) down the clothesline, shaking her head in bemusement as she reached Justin's dress shirts. Mama had taught him to fold clothes, yes, but he persisted in forgetting to unbutton his collar and cuffs before throwing a shirt into the wash. She would have to iron them later.

Finished with the wash, she had made her way back into the house, and deposited the basket on the dining room table. The door to the porch was still closed, and the curtains were drawn. Iris listened intently for a while - Justin's demons had apparently quieted enough to allow him to slip into sleep. She exhaled in relief. His nerves hadn't been that raw for years, not since high school and various bullies that were smart enough to use their words instead of their fists against him.

She had flipped on the radio - her usual nighttime distraction now that Justin had distanced himself - and listened idly to a few music programs. Most of the townsfolk had complained about her taste in music (_"a young woman should not listen to jazz, it's ungodly"_), but Iris didn't care. No one was going to dictate her musical preferences, thank you very much. If Justin didn't have a problem (and he'd never mentioned it if he had), then anyone else's opinion ceased to matter.

~*~*~*~

Iris hadn't realized she'd dozed off until she looked over at the clock and two hours had passed. The radio was still on, a piece by some composer named Porter playing softly, filling the living room. She had switched it off, gotten up, and attempted to stretch out the knots in her back. There were downsides to falling asleep on a sofa while sitting up. She had made her way upstairs, after listening for a few minutes at Justin's door as she always did to see if he was all right. She heard nothing, so she assumed he was asleep.

That was when she pushed open the door to the master bedroom (not that it was big enough to truly be the 'master' bedroom), and discovered the reason she hadn't even heard her brother's deep breathing on the other side of his door - he was currently sitting on her bed, a pillow clutched to his chest in a gesture she hadn't seen in years. And he was still half-dressed in his school clothes. Torn shirt, shoes untied but not off, belt halfway unbuckled. Like he'd begun changing for bed, and simply forgotten how to remove his clothing. And while she would have laughed at that (Justin was quite skilled at removing clothing - his and hers, for that matter), it didn't seem at all funny when confronted with her shivering brother.

"Have you been up here this whole time?" she asked, closing the door behind her.

He nodded wordlessly, like he didn't trust himself to speak.

"What's wrong? Did you have one of your dreams again?"

A shake of the head. Not a dream, then. Perhaps a waking vision. He was less prone to those, but they did affect him every now and then. Had he foreseen something involving the gypsy woman? Was that why he was so upset?

Justin himself was no help, though, simply sitting on her bed and staring at her. God, he hadn't been this bad in ages. And she had been his help in ages past. Iris sighed, and placed some folded skirts in her bureau before padding across the rug to stop before him.

"Alexei, I'm going to take your shoes off, all right?"

A nod. She knelt at his feet, slipping off his dress shoes and placing them beside hers at the foot of the bed. She didn't attempt to touch him further until she'd verbally informed him, having learned long ago that he didn't react well.

She'd had a time explaining the mark he'd given her unknowingly at twelve. He'd come home crying because the boys had teased his pronunciation and called them rude names. She'd taken him upstairs and tried to get him out of his dirt-encrusted clothes. She'd only reached for his shirt when he'd backhanded her nearly across the room. Ever since, she always made sure to constantly speak to him when he was in such a state.

"Is it all right if I remove your socks too?"

Another nod. The constant repetition seemed to soothe him, and he allowed her to remove his socks, belt, and pants in succession. She stood up, swallowing down her traitorous urge to lay him back and cover his body with hers, wiping off all traces of other women and too many nights sleeping at his desk.

Too long. Seven long months of enforced chastity and barely checked desire, and God help her because no one else would.

~*~*~*~

Mercifully, she'd gotten him stripped to undershorts without any bodily injury, and he'd even started giving her one and two word answers. Progress, indeed, as he'd been known to go entire nights without speaking to her. He was currently huddled under her blue-flowered quilt, watching her undress wordlessly. She didn't meet his gaze as she stepped out of her dress, unsnapping her garters and pulling off her stockings. She threw them into the laundry basket, and had just reached for a nightdress when she felt more than saw him approach her from behind.

_"Prostite men'a?"_

Forgive me? Forgive him for what? She'd already asked God's forgiveness long ago, but what had Justin to apologize for?

_"Pochemu?"_

Why? she asked, trying to face him, but her movements halted by the ginger touch of his hands on her arms. His flesh warmed to hers as if it were their first time - as it had never needed to that first time. At sixteen and eighteen, they'd been reckless and wild. They wanted each other, they needed each other, and so they would have each other. Their flame had long been lit, and that night, it had inevitably burned out of control. Justin had never been careful, and she'd never asked him to be.

His answer was so quiet, she had to strain to hear him. He whispered his words into the curve of her neck, sending shivers up her spine. _"Poskol'ku ya ne mogu prostit' men'a."_

Before she could ask him what he meant, he'd tilted her head to the side and pressed his mouth to hers. _I missed this - missed us_, she thinks. _I missed the flicker of your tongue against my mouth and the way you shudder when my teeth graze your lips._ Despite the desperation and hurt in his actions, she couldn't stop her lips from opening under his. She expected the delicious slide of her tongue against his, and the reflexive snap of his hips into her back, but his mouth tasted of stale wine (Justin rarely drank wine) and a strange woman's flavor.

Her immediate reaction was disgust - how dare he come to her with the taste of another woman on his lips? - but suppressed it immediately upon feeling wetness on her face. Justin had tears running down his face as he kissed her, and Iris could not find it within her to deny him what he wanted. Absolution. He had said it himself - forgive me. Help me find forgiveness. He had obviously sinned with this woman, and despite all her anger at him for his betrayal, she could not abandon him now.

She took hold of his face with one hand, and forced his eyes to meet hers. "You want my forgiveness, little brother?"

His response was to tighten his arms around her, and close his eyes in affirmation.

"Don't you know you never need to ask?"

The tears continued to rain down his face, and Iris kissed the trail each one left. Justin fell to his knees before her (o night divine) and held her hips in a brittle-fingered grip. He continued to shudder against her, encircling her waist with his arms and burying his face in her stomach. He murmured prayers of thanksgiving and pleas for mercy into her skin, and it was all she could do to lace her fingers through his hair in soothing motions. Her brother was falling once again (from grace, from faith, from on high) and she must catch him once again.

~*~*~*~

Easing him to his feet, Iris guided Justin back over to the bed. He fell heavily upon it, his movements lethargic from too many tears, both shed and unshed. She nudged his legs over further, and slid in behind him, still in her chemise and underclothes. The sobs had subsided, but a faint tremor still ran through him, causing his back to knot up and his hands to clench the sheets in a cruel mockery of passion. She slipped one arm around his chest, clasping both their hands to his heart in a steadying gesture almost forgotten.

"How can you touch me? I have sinned, Irina, and it cannot be washed away."

His voice came out broken, cracking in pitches he'd never reached, even during puberty. That had been much kinder, Justin having simply gone to sleep one night in a boy's sweet treble, and woken up the next morning in a man's baritone. Well, kinder to him. She'd been frightened nearly to death at his startled yell. Not as frightened as she was now, though.

She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, convincing herself to ignore the flinch that ran through him. "How can I not touch you, Alexei? Sin is part of being human. We have all sinned, and it is forgiven daily by God."

"Not this sin. I can't be forgiven for this. Not by God, and not by myself."

"But you asked me earlier to forgive you, and I did. How, then, do you explain that forgiveness?"

Turning to face her, though his eyes were still closed, he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "You know not what you have done, or what I have done. God does know, and so do I."

Justin opened his eyes, and she inhaled sharply as she beheld for herself the evidence of his sin - cobalt blue eclipsed by blackness - and yet was not afraid. For how could she be? She had seen this shadow that overtook her brother before, on a cold riverbank and in the sound of a man's neck snapping. She heard that snapcrack again, but this time, it was not the memory of the river that assaulted her.

_Desperate pounding on the wooden barrier. "Open the door, Apollonia!" A wordless scream as the door gave way (snapcrack) and the monster was loosed. Please, God, let it be loosed not for a thousand years, but save her as you saved the woman clothed in the sun. For she is the true daughter of the sun, is she not? "Justin, no!" Wood shoved underneath a soft belly, skirts shoved out of the way, and no no no she couldn't be. She was supposed to be a whore, a gypsy whore to be used and cast aside. Virginity made a thousand times more painful (because he wasn't careful, though she'd begged and pleaded, but tables make for harsh marriage beds), and why wouldn't he stop?!_

The darkness had bled out of his eyes as he realized she'd turned his own powers against him. It was supposed to be his gift - to know a person's darkest sin - and by her own abilities, she'd seen his. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Not seven years, but twenty (and why twenty, what did it mean?). And while she expected him to be upset that she'd seen his secret, he simply looked at her in awe and growing dread.

"Is it you, Irina? Are you the one that is destined to be lost?"

No! She was no Judas, no betrayer who would sell out a righteous man for thirty pieces of silver. "Alexei, what are you talking about?!"

He begun to slowly shake his head. "Eve was never so unknowing. She ate the fruit of knowledge willingly and led Adam astray. Adam did not condemn her. She was tempted by the serpent - who has tempted my Irina? Is it I, Lord?"

He continued his scattered prayer, and Iris was afraid once again. It wasn't his fault! It was hers (Iris', the gypsy woman's, Woman herself was to blame), and why couldn't he see that?

"Alexei, stop! I'm sorry I saw what that beast made you do. I'm sorry I now know what sin you've committed. I'm sorry that I can't stop it. I'm so sorry . . ."

Justin held her in his arms (mirror, mirror) and whispered half-Russian, half-Biblical nonsense into her curls. They would keep each other safe, as they always had. Would shield each other from the tempest, and row for shore. But they must not speak of this transgression, for it was done and nothing would come of it. Justin must simply cut all ties with this woman, and that would be the end (Omega) of it.

~*~*~*~

Later, Iris would wonder how it begun this time. Had she touched her mouth to his in comfort, and lit a flame she couldn't control? Had his hands slipped under her camisole, and brushed too close to temptation?

All she knew was that she was lying on top of him, and letting her hair curtain around them until they were shrouded from the world. Shutting out those ugly truths that they refused to believe (words like "incest", "rape", "adultery", and the ever-popular "cursed be").

She would never know how it begun, but she always knew how it would end. Clothing scattered across the room, hanging ridiculously from chairs and even the bedpost one time. Justin above (below) her, hands mapping out a gospel of his own making on her body, teaching it to her not in chapter and verse, but in repeated motions (for practice makes perfect, and sin gets easier over time). Iris leading him into temptation and following him when she could not find the way out. Her nails etching lines of prophecy into his back, and hips rolling like the tide on a long-ago riverbank.

This time, it was not wrong. Could never be wrong. This was not sin, but absolution. Not penance, but forgiveness. Every touch, every sound, dedicated to rewriting their story. A story told in Russian fairytales, outrageous lies to beloved guardians, and unspoken nights in a world of their own making.

She told herself that this would be a beginning - a return to the glory of before. No more locked porch doors. No more walking in at 8:59, hair half-done. No more sleepless nights wandering hallways, dozing on couches or desk chairs. It would be she and Justin, nothing separating them but opposing sides of the bed, and they could always meet halfway (for she lead, and he followed).

What Iris Crowe would learn in years to come was that St. Paul was not a beginning. It was not even a return. It was an end to innocence, and one that could not be fixed by sharing a bed again. She should have remembered that long-forgotten song she sung to her brother, for it would have reminded her that once lost, innocence cannot be regained.

_Childhood's toyland, mystical, merry toyland  
Once you pass its borders, you can never return again . . ._

**Author's Note:**

> Nepravil'no - wrong  
> Irina! Pomosch! - Irina! Help!  
> Prostit'e men'ya - forgive me  
> Pochemu? - Why?  
> Poskol'ku ya ne mogu prostit' men'a - because I cannot forgive myself


End file.
